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Saturday, April 28, 2012

It was 6:00am
and I was a bit fidgety from my cup of coffee, distracted because I wanted to write
and get my thoughts out about Heather King’s, Shirt of Flame, and on fire for
the LOVE of the Lord! Being in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament at the Adoration
chapel this morning was the place I needed to be…

“Jesus transforms
a white particle into himself every day in order to communicate his life to
you. What’s more, with a LOVE that is greater still, he wants to transform you
into himself.” St. Therese of Lisieux

“Christ will
not deceive us. That is why our lives must be woven around the Eucharist. The
Christ who gives of himself to us under the appearance of bread and the Christ
who is hidden under the distressing disguise of the poor is the same Jesus.”
Blessed Teresa of Calcutta

“I put
before you the one great thing to LOVE on earth: the Blessed Sacrament. There
you will find romance, glory, honor, fidelity, and the true way of all your
loves on earth and more than that.” J.R.R. Tolkien.

What did
you think of the stories of Fred and Gene in the book? How did the stories of
these ordinary men teach us about St. Therese? Fred reminds me of my Aunt
Katherine. As Elizabeth posted, “God's people should be treated with patience,
compassion, and love. Period.” Just as St. Therese did. I will end on that note
and LOVE on!

Gene reminds
me of Linda, whom I have seen and known for a few years, but just yesterday finally
introduced myself and the kids. We must have the same grocery day because we
always see each other shopping at HEB or Wal-Mart. She is a sweet lady with
auburn hair and is always up for a conversation no matter how long my grocery
list is or how cranky the kids are. She marvels at the children and their busyness.
If there was seating provided in the grocery aisles, I believe she would grab a
seat and enjoy watching and talking to people as they passed by. Our first
conversation started when I used to carry Mary Kate in the baby sling. She
wanted to see how it was made, so she could make one for her daughter. It was not for a grandchild, but what she
called her “grand-dog”. I no longer want to dodge her in HEB because I have too
much to do. I want to put my grocery list down, scoot my kids and cart out of
the middle of the aisle, and just visit with my friend Linda. I just think that
she is poor in loneliness, maybe it’s that God finds me poor in gratefulness.

Friday, April 27, 2012

from Chapter July, page 177, Coventry
Patmore on a saint: "...he will
mostly likely dwell with reiteration on commonplaces with which you were
perfectly well acquainted before you were twelve years old; but you must make
allowance for him, and remember that the knowledge which is to you a surface
with no depth is to him a solid..."

"A solid"--firmness, foundation, support, unwavering, not prone to or
dependent upon fashions or whims. Something which I honestly have
felt myself lacking for months now. "Rock solid" is a cliche we
often use, and the book
Shirt of Flame
has been a rock of sorts--a pebble-- in my life since it arrived on my
doorstep. Two forms of a pebble--the one-- that aggravating
pebble in a shoe that makes its presence known with each step you take until
you finally stop and deal with it. And the other--a smooth,
beautiful pebble, held in your palm, as you turn it over and stroke it, an aid
to your contemplation, quietly and unobtrusively helping you focus your mind
or, to free your mind from focus.

This book dovetails perfectly with our first read,
Lizzie's War. They are both real and honest--nakedly so--but
Lizzie and Mike, their boys--their various wars, though based on reality, are
still fiction and they give the reader the necessary comfort of exploring
uncomfortable truths in a fictional setting. In such a way,
fiction can influence our lives. Through our discussions of Lizzie's War, we explored the role of
vocation and striving to truly live--to thrive, spiritually, emotionally,
physically--where we find ourselves. Part of the comfort lay in the
truth of the C.S. Lewis quote which heads our blog banner, similarly shared by
F. Scott Fitzgerald, who wrote: "That is part of the beauty of literature.
You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely
and isolated from anyone. You belong." We found that we weren't
alone as we related to Lizzie, Betty, Fr. Germaine, Danny and saw bits of
ourselves, friends, neighbors, and family members in these characters.
For me, the language and honesty of Lizzie's
War was refreshing, not as a breath of fresh air, but more like a blast of
heat, with its cocktails, profanity, and flawed characters, shaking and
awakening me from my safe Catholic world. The world I had tried to
create, and maybe control, through homeschooling, a retreat from the range of
great literature which had previously nourished me in favor of a strict diet of
classics and spiritual reading, and fewer and fewer non-Catholic friends and
acquaintances. My world--my little world--shrinking and gradually
closing in--suffocatingly so.

So, after the refreshing blast of
Lizzie's
War came Shirt of Flame.
I wanted to read this from the first time Lauren shared it with me.
I wanted to hear from this real woman she described in Heather
King. She lived in Los Angeles. She was
divorced. She had worked for NPR. She was a
convert. This was no "more Catholic than the Pope"
Catholic. This sounded like a real, in-the-trenches,
in-the-world-not-of-the-world-Catholic. I had loved St. Therese and
grown to love her more when I read her Story
of the Soul, given to me by my friend of twenty-four years, my southern
Baptist friend, Gina. I finished the book a few weeks before Mama
died and St. Therese was my friend and comfort during those first few
months.

Heather King and St. Therese, however, did not offer me the insulation of
fiction as I delved into the truth of Love--what it means to really love, to
truly realize we are loved, and of knowing out Lover. From the
beginning, in the title that was inspired by the words of T.S. Elliot, the
stage is set for the rawness--the reality--of life: "breaks the air,"
"incandescent terror," "the torment," "the intolerable
shirt of flame."

And I squirmed. I chaffed--at King's words--and from the shirt,
described by Elliot, which King and Therese embraced. I rebelled.
After the first chapters, the book was left on my bedside table and it grated
on me, like that bothersome pebble. And I didn't want to stop and deal
with it. I wanted it to go away, so I could go away. I wanted to
be left alone to nurse my wounds. But I had to read it. I agreed
to be part of this book club. I needed this book club. And I knew,
at some level, that I needed this book. So, I picked it up again, in my
irritation, in my hurt, in what I realized, as I read--as King and Therese
pointed out to me--was my egotistical state, where I didn't simply nurse my
wounds--real and imagined--but actually preened over them. My mind and
my heart were at odds. Intellectually, I acknowledged it was a great
book--a deep, life-changing book. I could see its capacity for profound
spiritual and emotional growth. And my heart disliked it for that.
My heart knew what wounds were waiting to be exposed--and healed--and it
raged against the pain of the purifying fire, denying itself the cleansing and
healing of Love.

Continuing in the spirit of being forthright, my heart did not open to this
book until after I physically sat with others and discussed it. It
seemed that everyone approached the discussion with obvious elation. I
think everyone else at some point even physically expressed her love for the
book by hugging it close to her heart, usually after sharing a quote that had
special impact. I listened to my fellow readers as they described
how they were touched, how they were convicted, how they were enlightened by
the book, by Heather King, and by beautiful Therese. I watched the
downcast eyes that finally looked up rimmed with tears. And the cracks
began to break. The self-protection and denial of my solitude gave way
to an openness and vulnerability in the presence of those beautiful women, each
with a wisdom from her own experiences with life and our most recent book
assignment. The edges were being smoothed. A light of
compassion lit my mind's image of my mother as we discussed the passage about
faithful women who keep the Church and homes going with their unnoticed
efforts. My mother was that steady heartbeat of our home in the
face of the poorly functioning, diseased--spiritually, emotionally,
physically--head. The wound of my judgements--Why had she not left
him? Why had she endured so much?--flared and stung, but I let it be
exposed. I let go and let it rise to the surface. The
hurt of lies and manipulation from a person whom I had trusted were allowed to
throb, to pulse with pain, as we delved deeper into the idea that perhaps the
untainted image we had of people before they hurt us was the way God sees them,
ignoring their flaws and sins, of which we are also guilty. In the
midst of Therese's daily, hourly surrenders of her will, I let myself
acknowledge my selfishness over the past few months. The way I had
jealously guarded what seemed to precious little bits of time for myself in the
midst of my 24/7 vocation. It was as if I was
giving my heart permission to acknowledge the hurts as objective fact, but let
go of the pain they caused. For the first time in months, I was
leaving my heart open to God and the change in my heart was as simple and
unsophisticated as the cartoon image from Dr. Suess' Grinch, as his heart
slowly grows to almost bursting proportions. I kept silent during
most of the discussion, only joining in toward the end. I trudged
to the discussion, but I left changed.

And now, that worrisome pebble has been smoothed by companionship, by waves of
tears, by the brutally honest and simultaneously loving words of St. Therese
and Heather King that reflect their journey, their struggles, their painful
purification. Since our discussion, the quotes from the book, the
thoughts of the women gathered to discuss it, and the immeasurably deep truths
expressed in it are like that smooth pebble that I hold in my hand.
It's there, always present, as I stop and hold my tongue when I want to gripe
at the child who has spilled his drink AGAIN. It's there as I
remember the hurts of the past. It's there as I attempt to reconcile
the familial dysfunction of my childhood with the strength of my mother who
loomed large as a refuge of normalcy and hope. It's there, as I
feel less alone and more loved than I have felt in a while.
Unconsciously, I turn over the wisdom, rub it against my palm. But
it doesn't stop there. I've returned to Shirt of Flame each day
since that discussion. I'm consciously re-reading, not as a book,
but as part of a devotion. The pebble that irritated me now
challenges me with the fire, with hope, with loneliness, with Love, even as I
know the journey is long and it won't be easy. Valleys and peaks of
the spiritual life. I've been in the valley and now I can look up toward
the next peak, if I can learn from Therese's Little Way and from Heather King's
own journey along her own Little Way.

I sit here typing this, watching my daughter through the window as she enjoys a
frozen fruit bar with a purity of which only a child is capable.
After she bugged me for hours after I bought the box and I finally snapped,
"At 3:00, you can have one! Quit bothering me about
food!" (Quit talking to me, my child, while I'm trying to
write!) So, good on you, Heather King and St. Therese.
I'm surrendering and going very much against my will by leaving this piece
without any well-thought out ending. I'm going to go spend time
with my children and just enjoy being with them. It's a start--a
little one--

All right, book people. I just finished last night. Go ahead, slap my hand. I knew I couldn't make the meeting so I gave myself some room to be lazy. I wish I would stop doing that.

I do not have anything very poetic to say- that's Terri's job- but I wanted to post a response to one of Lauren's questions.

Regarding Fred, I thought that Heather King did an excellent job of making him real to us. Everybody has a Fred in their life. I love how she wove him into the story and used his life to show us how all of God's people should be treated- with patience, compassion, and love. Period. That is exactly what St. Therese did.

We make a big deal out of St. Therese's 'little way,' but after reading this book, it does not look quite as little to me. Always responding with love is actually big.

Thursday, April 26, 2012

What did you think of the stories of Fred and Gene (the homeless man) in the book? How did the stories of these simple, ordinary men help the author teach us about St. Therese?

This question reminds me of one of my favorite sayings, "character is how you treat those who can do nothing for you." When we read about Gene, I think of what St. Therese described as the "unnoticed drops of blood" of Christ on the cross and how we are all called to try in our own "little ways" to unite ourselves to the suffering in the Body of Christ. How can we love the "lepers" inside of ourselves until we love the "lepers" of society as Christ would?
I think of the Corporal Works of Mercy when Heather King describes Fred, and how visiting the sick can be a chore sometimes made worse when the patient has a difficult personality, or it somehow clashes with ours. Heather King reminds us that we can not grow by only surrounding ourselves by people who make us feel good about ourselves all the time! (awww snap!) What are those obstacles keeping us from fully embracing Jesus?
I felt so empowered by the way that Heather King reminds us, through the example of St. Therese, that our vulnerability really becomes our strength. We can't go anywhere on our own until we admit that vulnerability, like St. John says "Lord, I must decrease so that you may increase," (John 3:30).
Christ gives us everything we need for our journey - we must strive to be open to how God wants us to see ourselves and the world.

Here are a few more questions:

Which aspect of Therese's life did Heather King reveal to you in a new or different way?What did you think of the stories of Fred and Gene (the homeless man) in the book? How did the stories of these simple, ordinary men help the author teach us about St. Therese?On page 53-54, King writes about women "who wear the scapulars, who carry the flame; who wait, and who, in a very real way, have kept the Church going...." What do you think of this passage? Are there women in your life that image reminds you of? Share!

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

What can one book do, really? It's a compilation of pages, edited, printed, produced, shipped and read. And then set aside, placed back on the shelf, donated, recycled.

Or not...

Some books ( a rare few ) tend to embed themselves, or better yet, find a way of defining something in you that you knew was there but just couldn't put into words. They explain a feeling, a desire, a passion or a fear you can't define on your own, and you aren't sure if anyone else really would understand; they might think you're crazy. You might just be the only one who has ever felt that way. Until you see those words on the page. And then, as Lewis says, you are not alone.

Heather King writes, "The way to become whole, in other words, is to
become most fully ourselves - a lifelong task that paradoxically
requires us to rub up against, be filed down by, cracked open by and
perhaps most unexpectedly of all, loved by the very people whom we wish
to serve."

The book isn't a story about St. Therese of Lisieux. The book isn't a story about Heather King. It's about the story of each of us, mine and yours. Heather King knits together a fine thread connecting the fragile beauty of St. Therese's cloistered life with our modern day frenzied world. She introduces us her own cloister of Los Angeles and hints at ways for us to find our own. Ms. King lines up our tracing paper sketch with the original work of art, and, standing next to her, we see ourselves in this little saint.

We find that we can be all called to the 'little way of love'. It's not quite as out of reach, ephemeral, 1890's-cloister-confined as we once thought. She has unromanticized the story of Therese, helping us to see in her our weaknesses, our immense struggles, our unanswered loves, our loneliness, and our buried desire to seek the good fire that will consume all our desires with Love.

Maybe Therese understands us after all. Maybe she has had the answer all along. Maybe that is why she is a Doctor of the Church.

Heather King writes, "The story can't be "I'm a victim" and it also can't be "I'm a hero", though in some sense you're telling of the hero's journey. What makes for an authentic personal story is that the hero is not you; the heroes are the people who put up with or helped you along the way. The star of the story is not you, the star is something greater than you. The astonishment of the story is never that the world finally recognized your genius and showered you with the love and attention you so richly deserve. The story is that a God exists who is so kind, so loving, so merciful, that he sees fit to forgive all your transgressions, wrong turns, and mistakes; a God who ministers, with infinite tenderness, to all the hurt that's been done to you and all the hurt you've done to others, and welcomes you back to the banquet table."

Thursday, April 5, 2012

"Mass was like being on the greatest stage set that had ever and ever could be produced. Mass was to participate in an ancient, ever-unfolding cosmic drama. Mass was to understand that I was participating in the kingdom of God regardless of any particular emotion I felt, thought I had, or action I performed.
...
most days I walked the five long blocks, through traffic and honking horns, past the grand old apartment buildings, the Dong-A Book Plaza, the parking lot attendant at Heyri Coffee with whom, after many years, I was at last on nodding terms, the abandoned lot from which I sometimes plucked a frond of wild fennel through the chain link fence, and across Wilshire Boulevard to St. Basil's, built in the late 1960s, with its soaring concrete walls, high, narrow stained-glass windows and echoing sanctuary.

Here, I cast my lot with whatever other rag-tag dregs of humanity walked through the doors: the homeless Hispanic man sleeping on the pew beside me, the Korean matron, the Vietnamese nun, in her sneakers and veil. Like Therese, I had no one with whom to share my deepest inner life. As an alcoholic, I knew all too well my bereftness, my nothingness. To have been born in some sense mentally ill was also to have been rendered so poor in spirit as to burn with love for Christ and his imperfect, shabby, sometimes embarrassing Church.

Many days I was so distracted or anxious that I could barely hear a single word. Other times a phrase I'd heard a thousand times would strike me with the force of revelation. .... That the sacrifice upon which the world had been saved was re-enacted each day in the shadow of Tofu Cabin and Gentle Dental simultaneously mystified, moved, depressed, and cheered me.

I took in the Gospel; I listened to the homilies. I wept, I sighed, I gratefully concurred, I mentally argued. But all the while I was obeying. At a level way deeper than I could hear with my ears, I was listening carefully.
Out on Wilshire again -- Gold Town, Nara Bank -- I'd think: 'No one knows I go to Mass; no one would care if I didn't.' Walking home, I'd think: 'Was that a dream?'

But more and more, I saw that Christ was the realist thing there was. "

reading

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